


atlas, shrugging

by swishy



Series: Social Support and the Perception of Physical Heft [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming Out, Coming of Age, Family, Homophobia, Kitagawa Daiichi, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishy/pseuds/swishy
Summary: Life-changing realizations tend to hit Hajime by the dozen, over the span of a week or so. The last cluster of them occurred two years ago, so it’s not like he isn’t due for another one.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Social Support and the Perception of Physical Heft [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087862
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	1. sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rauchblau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauchblau/gifts).



> Well, here i am! Five years late! In my defense, the Starbucks line was really long.  
>    
>  This story is complete, I will be posting chapters as I go through the beta notes, so the schedule might not be regular but I can promise you'll have the whole story at some point. I have also written a sequel and nearly finished another multi-chapter fic that's set five years later, because apparently I? Can't get enough of this fandom? Who knew.
> 
> This is for [ rauchblau ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauchblau/pseuds/rauchblau), without whom this story would not exist for three reasons: Firstly, because she got me into this fandom in the first place, secondly, because her keysmashes, compliments, and randomly capitalized versions of my name kept me going through any and all low points I hit while writing this, and thirdly, because she talked me through a bunch of plot-related issues, helped me with the characterization, and beta-read everything. Thank you. I can't believe you aren't sick of it yet. <3
> 
> _and I want to give you the world,  
>  but I know you wouldn’t take it  
>  from anyone but  
>  your own ink-stained hands.  
>  [a. davida jane](https://faultedhavenbs.tumblr.com/post/117252769357/stop-biting-your-tongue-stop-wishing-on)_

“Want to have dinner at my place today?” Oikawa asks and immediately kicks off the ground, sending his swing creaking, his legs folded back so his feet won’t drag on the ground.

They happened upon each other at the crappy playground that’s about equidistant from both their houses by chance - well, by a definition of _chance_ that accounts for the fact that they both tend to hang out here when they need to get out of the house and playing volleyball isn’t in the cards, which is almost exclusively on Sundays. They’re the only ones there, the ground still shimmering with frost and the chains stinging cold against their palms.

“Sure,” Hajime agrees, twisting the seat of his own swing to the left and right, and watching Oikawa when he swings into view.

Oikawa has been strange about his family, lately. Not the kind of strange anyone but Hajime would notice, all airy shrugs and a suspicious lightness in his voice, but still different from usual. It’s been going on since the acceptance letters for high school started trickling in, and then got worse on Friday, for some reason. Something's wrong. Hajime has been coming up with and dismissing plans on how to get back at Oikawa’s parents without harming him in the process for a while now.

“‘S been a while,” he adds after a moment, as Oikawa swooshes past.

He's met Oikawa's parents before, of course he has - they have been too close for too long for anything else. But while Oikawa was readily adopted into the Iwaizumi household, the same has never been true for Hajime with Oikawa's parents: He's always felt, distinctly, like he didn't belong in their home - too unpolished, too rugged, too _uncouth_. Now, nearing the tail end of fifteen, he's beginning to suspect it's not his fault at all - after all, his own parents have never blinked at Oikawa's odd charm, his mood swings, the altogether fake attitude that he's been assembling for two years now. It doesn't detract from the grudge against Oikawa’s parents that Hajime has been building in their absence.

“Mm,” Oikawa hums, noncommittal, heels skidding on the rubber ground as he slows himself to a gentle sway. “You should probably stop calling me Oikawa, then. I can call you Hajime, too, if you want. Just for today.”

And the thing is, Hajime has been trying to get Oikawa to stop calling him ‘Iwa-chan’ for literal _years._ There is no way that him offering to drop it now is a good thing, and Hajime hates that Oikawa gets like this about his parents, how ready he is to change himself for them. Of course, Oikawa acts fake all the time, but it's usually on his own terms. This - whatever it is - is so blatantly _wrong_ that Hajime, abruptly, loses interest in even pretending to care for their opinion.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, gruff. “You're the only Oikawa worth knowing.”

Oikawa startles, at that. For a second, Hajime gets to watch his unguarded expression - wide-eyed, the corners of his mouth curling up into a delighted smile. Hajime savors it while he can, before Oikawa pulls up a scolding expression to cover it up. “Always so rude, Iwa-chan!” he says. The delight seeps through. 

If this is the only thing he can do - to be rude to Oikawa's parents in a way that won't reflect badly on Oikawa - then it's what he's doing, he decides.

*

So he shows up at their doorstep that evening, holding a last-minute gift, and doesn’t try all that hard to reciprocate when Oikawa’s mother opens and presents her splendid smile like a gift of her own. She’s a good deal shorter than him, but somehow manages to give off the impression of being tall all the same. Maybe it’s in the way she refuses to look up to anyone. “Hajime,” she greets brightly, “It’s so good to see you!”

“You, too, Mrs. Oikawa,” he says, and hands her the gift.

“Oh, what is this?” she asks, gearing up for delight even when what she’s holding probably just looks like a jar of dirt to her.

“Curry paste. Family recipe,” Hajime says, and, because the thought of the prim and proper Oikawas kneeling around their perfectly polished table trying hard not to sweat and cry into their meals had seemed funny to him a few hours ago as he was pestling the ingredients, he adds, “extra spicy.”

“How thoughtful!” There’s her delight, just in time. Hajime wonders if it’s as fake to anyone else, or if it’s just because he has watched Oikawa stumble over his own first attempts, seen him file and sharpen his expression into the same molds over the years. “Thank you very much, Hajime. Come in, sit down! It has been a while since you’ve seen my daughter, hasn’t it?”

And she’s off to get rid of his present, waving a hand for him to make his way to the dining table. Hajime feels a tentative hope that dinner won’t be as bad, if Oikawa’s sister is there - it’s been years, but he remembers her as lively, honest in a way the rest of her family isn’t, and, thankfully, for some reason, fond of him. 

He finds her at the table, opposite Oikawa’s father, looking thoroughly out of place with her bleached hair in a ponytail and bags under her eyes. Hajime does some mental math and concludes that Takeru must be about five now, not really young enough to still lose sleep over. 

“Hi,” he says awkwardly.

“Hajime! You’re here! I haven’t seen you in ages, you got so tall!”

Oikawa’s sister is grinning at him across the table, her tired face transformed in an instant with the genuine warmth of it, while his father is twisted around and appraising him with such forced neutrality that it has to be covering up something bad. He has always been imposing by his height alone, but the blank face accompanying his barely perceptible nod makes it worse. Hajime decides to focus on Oikawa’s sister.

“Not tall enough,” he mutters, and since he has a sixth sense for when Hajime complains about being shorter than him, of course Oikawa chooses that moment for his entrance.

“Iwa-chan! There you are!” He skips down the stairs, grabs Hajime by the elbow and guides him to the table, where he plops down next to his sister and expertly dodges her hand as she reaches out to mess up his hair. He stretches his right leg out in front of him until his father gives him a pointed look and he hurriedly tucks it underneath his body, kneeling upright.

“Aren’t you getting a little old to still be calling him by that nickname, Tooru?” Oikawa’s father asks, the sharpness of his tone just barely covered with a half-hearted chuckle.

Hajime sits cross-legged, meeting the disapproving look Oikawa’s father turns on him head-on as Oikawa gives a bland shrug, all traces of his smile gone. “He hasn’t complained so far.”

Hajime _has_ complained, loudly, multiple times, but in the face of Mr. Oikawa’s distinct fatherly disapproval, he doesn’t feel the need to point this out. “I don’t mind,” he says instead, a truth he’s been guarding for reasons he doesn’t entirely grasp himself.

Oikawa fixes him with a look, a neutral expression that wants to be a smile. Hajime smiles back.

Next to him, his sister slips out of her formal pose as well, resting her feet next to her legs. When she catches him looking, she throws him a wink.

“So,” Oikawa’s mother says, all business, setting down a steaming pot of nikujaga. “Let’s eat.” 

Hajime eyes the thin cuts of meat in the pot. He’s used to picking around it, leaving it for Oikawa or one of his brothers to steal, but he has a feeling that might not be an option today. 

He’s about to open his mouth to request a serving without meat and no doubt offend the entire family in the process, when he sees that Oikawa, always one step ahead, is already sitting up on his haunches. As soon as his mother sets down the pot, he snags the ladle and raises his eyebrows at Hajime until he nudges his bowl closer. There’s almost no meat poking out from the vegetables in the portion Oikawa upends in his bowl, and he gratefully tugs it back towards himself, ignoring the quick sideways glance Oikawa’s father is giving him. 

As a child, Hajime used to dread the absolute silence that would descend on Oikawa’s family at dinner time, used to the chaos of his own home. Now, he’s almost grateful for the reprieve, muttering a quick thanks and keeping his focus on his food for the better part of the meal.

Only after she sets down her chopsticks does Oikawa’s mother dive into conversation.

“How are your brothers doing?” she asks while he is still picking at the last potato cubes in his bowl. “Did Tsugio settle into Kitagawa Daiichi nicely? He’ll be a second year soon, right?”

There’s no way they won’t find out anyway, so Hajime swallows his last bite and says, “He might have to repeat the grade. Mom’s trying to tutor him, but it might be best for him to get held back now so he can get back on track.”

He looks up into the shocked faces of Oikawa’s parents. _Choke on it_ , he thinks grimly, helping himself to seconds when nobody moves to offer any, not even bothering to hide that he’s fishing around the meat in the pot. Over her parents’ embarrassed apologies, he catches Oikawa's sister smiling at him across the table, just barely, and it occurs to him that she might only like him because he diverts their attention from her.

It doesn't matter, he decides, and smiles back, all teeth and no restraint. If she wants to be his ally for whatever reason, she's welcome to it.

Into the awkward silence that follows, he finally asks after Takeru, managing to start a less excruciating conversation, and keeps it going as best he can. He calls Oikawa by his family name the whole time, through his father's raised eyebrows and his mother's affected laugh and his sister's knowing grin, and through Oikawa quietly watching him the entire time, growing increasingly fidgety as the conversation winds down. 

When Oikawa’s mother finally makes a move to clear the table, Hajime offers to help with the dishes, because he's sure that that'll somehow be construed as rude as well. And of course it is, Oikawa's mother laughing her goddamn tinkling laugh and telling him that he's a guest, of course he shouldn't bother washing the dishes like a _servant_. Hajime shrugs and follows Oikawa up the stairs to his room.

“ _Wow_ ,” Oikawa says breathlessly, when the door has shut behind them, throwing himself onto his futon, where he lands in a sprawl. “How do you _do that_.”

“That's just how I talk,” Hajime snaps, and sits down on the one edge of it that’s still free, Oikawa's body immediately winding around his backside like a comma, in the way he's taken up lately. Hajime’s hand finds his right leg almost on autopilot, and he digs his fingers in below Oikawa’s kneecap, absently kneading the tissue where it must be stiff from kneeling for so long.

“No, I know, that's what I mean,” Oikawa says, looking up at him from his other side. He's so rarely honest that it startles Hajime every time. “My parents are so good at making people pretend, and you just refuse.” He prods his fingers into Hajime's side, and Hajime focuses on not twitching. “Like it's _easy_.”

“They just don't mean that much to me,” Hajime says, trying not to let on that Oikawa still knows exactly where he's ticklish. “They're not _my_ parents. If they've been treating you shitty” - _shittier than usual_ , he thinks darkly - “I couldn't care less about their good opinion.”

Oikawa laughs, genuine and grateful, and it's all Hajime can do to smile back at him helplessly. 

“You know, I’ve always been so ready to go along with whatever plan they had in mind for me,” Oikawa muses, detaching himself from Hajime and spreading out across his entire futon like a starfish again, foot nudging into Hajime’s backside. “Drop volleyball after school and go forth to be a lawyer or a doctor or whatever they wanted for me.” 

And the thing is, Hajime can see Oikawa as a lawyer or a doctor. He’s ruthless, charming, can read people like a book and has an excellent memory and work ethic. He can make split-second decisions with pinpoint accuracy, and he performs well under pressure. But the face he pulls at the admission makes it clear that it’s the last thing he wants out of life. 

“And now?” Hajime asks, indulging him for once. Oikawa gives a mean little laugh that he usually reserves for making fun of Kageyama, and sits up on his elbows.

“I’m done carrying their baggage. I’ll get a sports scholarship after high school and move out, so they can’t control me anymore. I can make my own decisions. I already did, you’ll see. I could even play professionally. The Olympics, Iwa-chan! Imagine!”

Hajime, who has been imagining Oikawa playing in the Olympics for two years now, just shrugs. “Well, yeah.” For a second, he debates if he should ask what Oikawa means by ‘ _I already did’_ , but then decides against it - Oikawa may be a schemer, but he is also in constant, desperate need for someone to recognize his genius, and that someone is usually Hajime. He’ll find out sooner or later.

Oikawa sits up properly and shakes his shoulder until Hajime turns to face him. There’s a strange nervous energy about him. “No, not just as a stupid dream, I mean for real. I think I could get there, if I tried hard enough!”

Hajime nods slowly. It’s not exactly news to him that Oikawa gets what he wants, but he’s slowly coming to the realization that it may be news to _Oikawa_.

“I think so too,” he says finally, as seriously as he can. He points at the “ _Best Setter”_ award that’s sitting on Oikawa’s desk, central enough that it has to bother him when he does his homework. “They don’t hand these out to just anyone, you know?”

Oikawa gives him a broad smile. “My biggest fan, Iwa-chan. My first supporter. How will you be my ace when I need you in the stands, cheering for me?”

Hajime snorts, shaking his head. “I’ll figure something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with some kind of mix between keeping the honorifics and not, where I translated them whenever I thought I found an English approximation, left them out whenever I thought it didn't make a big enough difference, and ended up with a whole lot of Iwa-chans that I didn't dare touch. I'm sure it wouldn't pass muster for any kind of official translation, but we know those aren't my standards, so please be kind to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you liked it, comments sustain me <3


	2. monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full scope of what Oikawa meant when he said _I’m done carrying their baggage_ doesn’t really hit Hajime until the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Monday! I'd be lying if I said this chapter wasn't heavily inspired by [Close to the Chest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898771) (like probably all Haikyuu! Coming of age fics that came after it), but I hope I gave it enough of a spin to stand on its own.

The full scope of what Oikawa meant when he said _I’m done carrying their baggage_ doesn’t really hit Hajime until the next day. He knows something’s off as soon as they reach the school grounds; it's in the carefully orchestrated silence that greets them, people turning away as they approach. 

Usually, their classmates fall over themselves to chat with Oikawa in the mornings, to ask him about his weekend and tell him about theirs - inconsequential things, conversation that Oikawa invites and reciprocates with an ease Hajime doesn’t really get. Now, the only thing that shows their arrival doesn't go unnoticed is the badly hidden staring, all from a safe distance. It sets Hajime's teeth on edge.

“What’s their damage?” he asks, interrupting the steady stream of chatter that Oikawa has kept up since they passed the gate. Oikawa drops his insipid smile and tilts his head down to give him a sidelong glance.

“You haven't heard?” he asks back, somewhere between relief and trepidation.

Hajime frowns. “Heard what? Shittykawa, if you think people try to gossip _with me_ about _you_ , I've got some news for you.”

Oikawa laughs, sounding a fraction less strained. “Right,” he says. “I keep forgetting people are _scared_ of you. I should tell them you still sleep with a night light.”

“You should tell them to _mind their own business_ ,” Hajime suggests, glaring at one of his underclassmen who just gave him a look of such badly hidden disgust that it turns Hajime's stomach. Whatever the rumors are, they must be bad, if it's enough to include Hajime just by sheer proxy. He takes half a step in the boy's direction, and he flees.

“Ah, what can I say? People care about what I do and think, I can't help that,” Oikawa replies lightly.

They get to their classroom just as the bell rings, too perfectly timed to be anything but careful consideration on Oikawa's part. 

Hajime remembers the cat Oikawa had insisted on chasing down several blocks on the way to school, despite the fact that he couldn’t give a damn about cats any other day of the week. The round-faced calico (“It’s a lucky cat, Iwa-chan!”) had been decidedly unimpressed for most of the journey, until Oikawa finally managed to convince it that he was friendly, smiling up at Hajime in something like triumph as it rubbed its head on his hand. Hajime had rolled his eyes at his antics even as he bent down to scritch between its ears because unlike Oikawa, Hajime actually _likes_ cats.

Oikawa’s timing means that the hush that falls over the classroom at their arrival can't turn to whispers, because Ms Hayashi enters just a second later and calls them to attention.

Hajime plops down in his usual seat next to Oikawa and stares back at Shinoda to his left, who is busy scooting his chair all the way to the opposite edge of his table. 

By the time recess rolls around, Hajime is ready to punch a guy. Or, alternatively, a lot of guys. He can probably take most of them in a fight, but unfortunately not at the same time.

They make their way to the cafeteria without issue, what with everyone giving them a wide berth. Hajime tries his best to think of it as a good thing.

They get in line to get something to eat, Oikawa facing resolutely forward, nose high in the air. Hajime casts a glance at the people in line in front of them, but they don’t seem to be paying them any mind for once. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?,” he hisses.

Oikawa sighs, seemingly steeling himself for something - and then, right at the low point of his sigh, someone brushes past, sinking an elbow into his stomach and rushing on before Hajime can make out a face or even register anything beyond Oikawa’s pained grunt. 

Oikawa doesn’t double over, but he does stumble back a step, then another, eyes wide. Hajime automatically follows, reaching out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. When he turns to see who’s the _fucking coward_ who punched and ran, he only catches a glimpse of short, dark hair and medium height, which could mean about eighty percent of the guys in this school.

“I wouldn't touch him if I were you, Iwaizumi,” says someone from behind them just as he’s considering running after the guy and causing a scene. Hajime finishes spinning around, hand still on Oikawa's shoulder, to fix the boy in line behind them with a glare. Hajime has seen him around, not enough to remember his name. He's in basketball, he thinks.

“Why's that,” he asks flatly. 

In his peripheral vision, Oikawa rights himself, both feet planted firmly on the ground, a shoulder-length apart. Bracing himself as if for another punch.

“He's _gay_ ,” the guy sneers, and Hajime replies, right on top of it, a practiced receive: 

“And what do I care?”

Then he blinks. Turns around for confirmation. 

“Bi, actually,” Oikawa corrects flippantly. He's wearing his careless facade, but it's slipping. For once, Hajime doesn't want to wait long enough to find out what's underneath, so he keeps talking over his shoulder, one eye on Oikawa the whole time.

“What's it to you, anyway? Not like he's made a move on you, right? Leave him alone.”

Oikawa laughs. Takes a breath. Shrugs. “Don't worry, Kobayashi, you're not my type. I like _attractive_ men, like Chris Hemsworth. _He's_ hot.” He takes a step back, letting Hajime's hand fall off his shoulder. It's a preemptive move, the kind Hajime sees him pull all the time - getting distance between them before Hajime can do it himself. Hajime watches it happen as if in slow motion.

He has felt this way before, a couple of times: Like he's reached a fork in the path he's been following, and he can clearly see the decisions that will lead him down one path or another. 

He could leave it at that, get food, sit down and talk smack about that guy Kobayashi (and everyone else who has been whispering behind their backs, staring at them when they weren't looking, hissing insults under their breaths in passing). Get him through this, and keep his mouth shut. As shows of support go, it would be enough, probably. Oikawa is used to taking whatever sparse encouragement he has to offer and blowing it up until it’s barely recognizable.

Or. 

Somehow, he keeps seeing Oikawa’s wide eyes, his hand on his stomach, the surprise masking his pain. Hajime is reasonably sure that Oikawa has _never once_ been punched in earnest, or at all by anyone other than Hajime.

Hajime thinks, _it's going to happen at some point._ He thinks, _better get it over with._ He thinks, _like a bandaid._

He makes himself nod. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s hot.”

He watches as Oikawa takes it in. It takes him a second, and he fumbles his expressions once, but then he’s sporting a beaming smile, turning back to Kobayashi and slapping a hand on Hajime’s shoulder, just a little too close to his neck.

“See? This guy has _taste_.”

Kobayashi mutters something under his breath, but when Hajime takes a threatening step towards him and says, “What did you say?,” he just shakes his head and resorts to glaring at them.

Oikawa spins back around and takes Hajime with him, still with his hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing against his neck. He one-handedly grabs a tray and angles his perfect smile at the lunch lady, who, luckily, seems exempt from school gossip and smiles back, perfectly polite.

When they sit down, everyone else leaves them in peace. Even the tables around them stay empty, like they’re contagious. Oikawa looks around, and, inexplicably, starts _laughing_. 

Hajime, who has been trying to figure out the best way to ask him if he’s okay, settles for a weak “What the fuck, Oikawa,” instead.

“We’ll be alright,” Oikawa says, leaning towards him on his elbows, still smiling. 

Hajime has been on the receiving end of this look countless times. He knows its intensity covers up for bullshit fifty percent of the time. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less convincing. 

“Yeah?” he asks, hopeful despite himself. 

“Yeah. People are too afraid of you, and they like me too much.”

 _Not anymore_ , Hajime thinks, but he makes an executive decision to let it go. There is no convincing Oikawa when he gets like this, and if nothing else, they can use some optimism.

“The fuck did you do anyway, to get yourself outed?” he asks instead, jabbing at his food.

“Someone asked, and I didn’t lie.” Oikawa, when Hajime gives him a disbelieving look, is completely preoccupied with a single grain of rice that won’t cooperate.

“Why not?”

“Lying is bad, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa chides, finally managing to pick up the rice grain and lifting it to his mouth with a victorious smile.

“Lying is _all you do_ ,” Hajime points out.

“Well, I wanted to stop. You should be glad, you always tell me to.”

“I’m just surprised. This is a weird fucking place to sta--” Hajime cuts himself off when the realization hits. “Oikawa, tell me you didn’t come out to get back at your parents.”

Oikawa shrugs. “I could tell you that, but that would be counterproductive, what with me trying to cut down on lying.”

Hajime spends a good minute coming to terms with that revelation, trying and failing to come up with something to say to it that isn’t _why_. Oikawa graciously lets him work through it in silence, clicking through something on his phone and humming to himself.

“And anyway,” he finally continues after Hajime snaps his lunch box shut, like there was never a pause in their conversation at all, “ _You_ don’t get to lecture me on stupid reasons to come out. Do you even know what Chris Hemsworth looks like?”

Hajime does not. 

“Show me,” he says tiredly. “Let’s see if he’s worth the trouble.”

*

Somehow, they get through the rest of the school day. There's no volleyball practice on Mondays, but they know an outdoor volleyball court just a few minutes from school that nobody else ever seems to use in winter, so if the weather permits, they usually end up practicing there. Most of the time, others from their team join them - never the same people, and some more often than others, but Oikawa's sheer determination is catching and nobody is immune to it (not even Kunimi, pretend though he may).

Needless to say, nobody else shows up today even though it’s almost warm, pale sunlight streaking the asphalt in the gaps between houses. 

There's a relief in being alone after all the open hostility they've had to face today, Hajime thinks, taking off his jacket and leaning into a stretch immediately, ignoring the initial shock of fresh air. Across from him, Oikawa mirrors him, his face completely blank. It looks a little bit like he used up all of his facial expressions for the day, and Hajime feels a stab of sympathy that he does his best to stretch out like he would a side stitch.

They fall into a routine almost wordlessly - Oikawa practices his jump serves, and Hajime tries to receive them. He doesn’t usually love this particular exercise, but today, there's a satisfaction in running after every single ball, dedicating the entirety of his brain capacity to following the trajectory of every serve Oikawa hits and returning them one by one.

There's a different kind of satisfaction in watching Oikawa spin the ball in his hand, in watching him toss, run up, and leap, and hearing the unmistakable, solid _snap_ of his palm as it connects with the leather. His form, product of tireless exercise, would probably be perfect even if he did this half asleep or sick or distracted, but his serves still go out of bounds more often than not today. Hajime can’t say he’s surprised - it’s a delicate operation, bound to come apart at the slightest disturbance. Hajime is reasonably sure today qualifies as more than _slight._

Oikawa keeps at it, though, his face still impassive, working through the motions again and again, until he finds his rhythm and settles into it.

Hajime doesn't know how much time has passed when Oikawa finally catches the ball Hajime sends back over the net and doesn’t immediately launch into another serve. “Okay,” he calls out to him, “Let's strategise!”

They do that, sometimes, before important matches - Hajime is more present than he is actually _helpful_ during those sessions, but he never complains. He tries to learn, at least, the way Oikawa dissects the other teams' strategies, how he comes up with ways to counteract them and cut them off.

There's no upcoming match now, with the Athletics Meet just behind them, but Hajime shrugs and makes for the bench in the short grass by the side of the court, shrugging his jacket back on before the cold can get to him. 

Oikawa sits down a safe distance away. Hajime has just enough time to wonder if this is the end of the casual touches Oikawa kept bestowing on him before Oikawa gets his feet up on the far end of the bench and flops down, head in Hajime's lap, smiling up at him.

Abruptly, Hajime doesn't know what to do with his hands. 

“So! Strategy,” Oikawa repeats, unperturbed. “We'll make them come crawling back by next week. You just keep glaring at anyone who tries to insult us, I think that's been working well.”

“That's just my face,” Hajime says automatically, then sits up straighter, because _of course. Strategy._ He remembers Oikawa’s look at lunch, full of determination. Of course he wouldn’t just _hope for the best._ Of course he’d turn it into a fucking _game_ , clawing his way back to fame. 

“Well, keep using it, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says sweetly. “We'll talk to anyone who wants to talk to us, but we won't be _grateful_ for anyone's attention. They're the ones who need to grovel.” He taps his chin, thoughtful. “Except for Shinoda and Kobayashi. We're not talking to them until they actually apologize.”

Hajime frowns. “What's wrong with Shinoda?” He doesn't know much about the guy, except that they sit next to each other in their homeroom and sometimes share a kind of silent agreement that vectors are the devil's work. Of course, today he was sitting with his stuff so close to the edge of the table that his textbook was constantly in danger of falling off, sure, but if that's their bar, they'll need to shun way more people than this.

“I need you to be _ice cold_ , Iwa-chan. Can you do that for me?” Oikawa asks, not answering his question. He’s biting his lip, the way he does when he’s thinking hard. 

And of course Hajime knows, objectively, that Oikawa is the one with the people skills, but he's never stopped to consider it as an actual _skill_ : It must have taken work Oikawa was willing to put in, the same way he was willing to practice his jump serve over and over until his palms were burning - watching people's reactions, their relationships among each other, dropping a word or a smile or a shrug and watching their effects ripple out like rings on the surface of a lake. 

“Sure,” Hajime finds himself saying. “I trust you.”

Oikawa blinks once, twice. Smiles again, more softly. If Hajime kept tabs on Oikawa's smiles, this would be a favorite. “And _I_ know you have my back.”

Hajime rests a palm on Oikawa's stomach, careful not to put any pressure on it. “I should have had your front, too.”

“It doesn't even hurt anymore, Iwa-chan, stop _fretting_ ,” Oikawa says, and it's _almost_ familiar territory, except he sounds a little breathless. He’s warm to the touch even through his jacket. “I've got my own front, starting today. He just caught me off-guard.”

“Mm,” Hajime says. “And what about practice?”

Oikawa purses his lips. “I’ve been thinking about that, and you’re not going to like it - why hello!”

Hajime watches Oikawa’s mask assemble in record time while he rights himself and gives a cheerful wave, Hajime’s hand falling to his side. When Hajime follows his line of sight, he’s very briefly surprised, and then wonders why.

He’s never met anyone who cares about anything that isn’t volleyball as little as Kageyama does. And here he is, awkward and lanky and very, very thirteen, making his way towards them in that stiff way he has, eyes on the ground. 

“Hello, Iwaizumi,” he greets. “Oikawa.”

“Tobio-chan!” Oikawa chirps. “Did you try to wait us out?”

Kageyama looks up. “Tutoring ran late.” He bends down to pick up the volleyball Oikawa left by the side of the bench, spinning it in his hands. When he does it, it looks almost compulsive, but it might still beat Oikawa’s fucking annoying showmanship. “Are you already done practicing?”

Oikawa gives Hajime a look that says, _let’s ditch him._

Hajime raises his eyebrows in a way that hopefully relays, _we can’t afford any more enemies._

“What did you want to practice?” he asks, half-rising. Kageyama is still staring at the ball in his hands. 

“Jump serves,” he says, Oikawa mouthing the words along with him with an eyeroll.

Hajime raises his eyebrows at Oikawa. 

Oikawa makes a face. “Do you want help?” he drones as if reading from a script, clearly unenthusiastic at the prospect.

Kageyama looks up at that, straight at Oikawa. “Yes, please,” he says, and Oikawa leans forward, raising a hand to his ear. 

“What was that last part?”

Kageyama stands up straight. “Yes, please, captain!” he repeats, louder.

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got,” Oikawa says, getting up and spinning Kageyama around by his shoulder to face the court as he passes.

Kageyama seems to take it in stride. Hajime gets up and on the other side of the net; if he’s going to stick around, he might as well get in some more practice, too. He watches Kageyama get into position. Oikawa hovers half a meter to his side, then seems to make a decision and gets into Kageyama’s space to correct his footing, then the way he holds out his arms, then the line of his shoulders. 

Kageyama takes in all of his corrections, as serious as ever. 

Hajime breathes a secret sigh of relief, watching him take the run-up, jump, and serve. 

The ball soars over the net and connects solidly with his forearms, flying up again - the serve doesn’t have as much force as Oikawa’s yet, but Hajime can already tell that Kageyama is well on his way there, even after the patchy half-year of practice he’s given it and in spite of Oikawa’s initial refusal to teach him anything. 

“Nice serve!” Hajime calls out, running after his own receive and tossing it over the net for the next one.

“How come you never tell _me_ that, Iwa-chan?”

“Your ego doesn’t need feeding, Shittykawa!” he yells, getting into position. 

“My ego is _starving_!” Oikawa calls back, and hands Kageyama the ball again. “That _was_ nice, Tobio-chan, but you’re going to want to have more force behind it. Look at Iwa-chan.” 

Kageyama narrows his eyes at Hajime across the field. 

“You want to _fuck him up._ ”

Hajime laughs. “Try,” he says. 

*

It’s almost dark by the time Hajime gets home. Sore and tired and with his forearms covered in scrapes from a particularly ill-advised dive, he feels almost normal again, if he doesn’t think too hard about the pinched smile Oikawa gave him when they parted ways at the 7-Eleven a block from home, as if to say, _off to the next challenge._

Hajime lets himself in, kicking off his shoes by the door.

The entire house smells like agedashi tofu, and with the reminder that Monday is his father’s day off comes the realization that the world hasn’t ended, so of course he’s making dinner like he does every Monday, and of course sometimes dinner means his favorite.

Rooted to his spot in the genkan, Hajime listens to his father’s and brothers’ voices mingling in the kitchen, their laughter booming out into the hallway - and all of a sudden he’s choking on a lump in his throat, stumbling into the guest bathroom where the smell and the voices are muted when he closes the door behind himself, sucking in a few quick breaths to try and calm down.

“Okay, okay,” he tells himself in the near-dark of the bathroom, fumbling for the faucet to wash his face and wincing when the water runs down the raw skin of his arms. He takes the time to prick out most of the gravel and soaps them up, breathing through the sting. He’s okay, the year is almost up. High school will be a new start. Whatever happens, he still has Oikawa.

He rinses his arms and bends down to splash water on his face. Turns to face where his reflection would be, if he’d bothered to switch on the light. He gives it a salute, and immediately feels stupid about it.

“Hajime?” he hears his mother call from somewhere upstairs.

“I’m home,” he calls back belatedly, quickly drying off his face and arms and opening the door. 

“Welcome home! What were you doing in there, in the dark?” His mother is hanging over the banister to get a good look at him, her hair coming free of the braid and framing her face in frizzy strands.

Wordlessly, Hajime holds out his arms towards her, elbows first. He feels like a child, demanding pity for mild injuries from his mother, but if he can’t have her pity for his actual, horrible day, he’ll settle for this.

“Oh, love,” she sighs. “I keep telling you boys to take better care of yourselves. I’ll get the disinfectant, come up here.”

That’s how Hajime ends up on the edge of the bathtub while his mother fusses over him, her small, rough hands turning his arms, dabbing at them with a cotton pad and cleaning out the gravel he missed, letting out little scolding noises as she does. 

“What happened?” she asks finally, stowing away the disinfectant and giving him a glance over her shoulder. It’s several questions at once, and Hajime considers, for a second, giving a response to either.

“A dive,” he says after a moment. “I was out practicing with Oikawa and Kageyama, on that outside court. Forgot it wasn’t the gym for a second.”

“Mm,” she says, unimpressed, and comes back to ruffle his hair. “Well, let’s get downstairs before your brothers eat everything.”

“Like they’d manage,” Hajime snorts. There’s no hunger big enough for the portions his father cooks. 

Hajime slinks into the kitchen after his mother, calling out a general greeting and slumping down in his chair opposite his younger brothers.

Tsugio turns away from Keizo in a way that’s too slow to be anything but deliberate, and levels a flat look at Hajime.

Hajime sits up with a start. Of course - Tsugio goes to Kitagawa Daiichi. Tsugio is on the basketball team. He’s definitely heard - if not of Hajime, then at least of Oikawa. How had he not considered this? 

(Of course, he’s done his best to avoid thinking all day, leaving it all to Oikawa. Maybe he deserves this.)

“Shut your ugly face, or I’ll fucking kill you,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth, racking his brain in an attempt to figure out if the basketball team practices on Mondays or not. 

Tsugio gives him a disdainful smile - he’s been doing that a lot, to the point where Hajime has asked him if he practices them in the mirror - and turns away and back to Keizo, who is reaching out towards Hajime across the table, demanding to see his _wounds_. 

Hajime leans across the table and lets him prod his arms with his sticky little fingers, watching Tsugio out of the corner of his eye, but he’s already seemingly absorbed in a discussion about how he’s _totally_ on top of his schoolwork, and he doesn’t need extra tutoring at _all,_ come on, it’s fine, mom.

“Did you have basketball today?” Hajime finally asks him, before their mother can press the issue. 

“Yeah,” Tsugio says, turning back to look at him, expression back to carefully neutral. “There’s a good chance I’ll be first string once Kobayashi leaves for high school.”

Something like dread settles in the pit of Hajime’s stomach. “I’m sure you’ll be a good replacement for him,” he gets out. “He seems like a pretty shit team player.”

“Yeah,” Tsugio agrees, kicking out his feet against the legs of Hajime’s chair. He slouches back on the low bench as their father sets down the steaming bowls. “He’s a prick.”

“Don’t insult other players just because you want their position, Tsugio,” his mother chides.

“No, he really _is_ a prick,” Hajime jumps in, reaching for the serving spoon and starting to dish out the rice. “It smells really good, dad.”

His father grins at him, folding himself into the far end of the bench. “I thought you’d appreciate it. It’s a celebratory dinner.”

Hajime can’t help staring. “What are we, um -” he turns to look at his mother, who freezes like she was definitely just frantically shaking her head at his dad, “--celebrating?”

“Nothing,” his dad says quickly. “The, uh--” he visibly racks his brain for a fake reason and visibly comes up empty, “-- oh, did Tooru not want to come today?”

Tsugio’s head snaps up, and Hajime barely stops himself from flinching. “No,” he says carefully. “I think he’s got some trouble with his parents,” he adds, because to an extent, that’s always true, and at least his mom knows what an awkward affair Sunday dinner was. Not that Tsugio seems to care, still watching him over his bowl. Hajime quickly mutters, “Thank you for the food,” inclining his head to break eye contact.

“Prick!” Keizo yells delightedly into everyone else’s obedient murmured thanks, little hands clasped together, and in the ensuing chaos of laughter and scolding and over the intermittent sharp looks Tsugio sends him, Hajime forgets to ask about his father’s weirdness.

*

After dinner, Hajime spends half an hour fidgeting in his room, lying down on his bed for a second, then pacing the length of his room, then emailing Oikawa a series of frog pictures all captioned with some variation of _ur face_ , then managing to work on his homework for a few minutes.

 _iwa-chan how are u still so mean even when I’m the only one on ur side,_ Oikawa replies, and Hajime immediately finds the strength of will to shut off his computer, get up, and sneak back out into the hallway.

He hesitates for a few seconds in front of Tsugio’s door, then knocks twice.

They used to have a code, back when they still regularly played together, but Hajime isn’t sure if that’s going to help him right now.

It turns out to be a moot point, because even so, Tsugio doesn’t answer. Hajime knocks again, changes his mind, and doesn’t even wait for a response before opening the door a crack.

Tsugio is sitting hunched over his desk, a steady beat seeping out from the headphones covering his ears, pencil in hand. 

Hajime closes the door without bothering to push down the handle, and when that fails to call Tsugio’s attention, he marches over to him and pulls one earpiece cushion away from his ear, letting it snap back into place.

Tsugio scrambles up, screaming, and almost falls off his chair. 

An ugly snort-laugh escapes Hajime.

“What the _fuck_ do you want, shithead?!” Tsugio yells, way too loudly. He shrugs off his headphones, something like a melody joining the tinny beat. It’s almost familiar in that way a piece of music gets when someone nearby is constantly singing snatches of it. Hajime softens his laughter.

“I don’t know, man, I was feeling kind of down, but I’m much better now, so I’ll just--” Hajime makes to leave, and Tsugio grabs him by the hood of his sweater and pulls him back. 

“Oh no no no. You don’t get to tell me to _shut my ugly face_ and then pull this. I’m doing you a fucking favor. Explain.” He stops the music. 

“Okay,” Hajime says, because Tsugio is right, for once. He sits down at the foot of Tsugio’s bed, falling backwards and staring up at the ceiling. “What do you want to know?”

“Why are you _doing this?”_ Tsugio asks, immediately. “You were fine before, weren’t you?”

Hajime breathes out. Out of all the possible questions, this one is the hardest to answer. He doesn’t have a simple reason, but maybe - it’s worth a try - they are similar enough in mind that Tsugio might get it, anyway. “You know about Oikawa, right?”

“I’ve known about Oikawa since Friday, Kobayashi emailed the entire team.”

Hajime pulls a face, chancing a look at Tsugio. “Well, he’s - I don’t know if Kobayashi explained what happened exactly, but…”

“He had a pretty detailed story,” Tsugio says, making a face. “But I wanna hear it from you.”

“Right,” Hajime says, relieved. “Um, so, Oikawa and I were getting in line for lunch, and he was about to tell me what the hell was up because _nobody bothered to tell me_ ,” he rights himself to level a pointed glare at Tsugio, who raises his hands.

“Dude, last time I told you about Oikawa-related gossip, you yelled at me for like an hour. I got the message that time.”

Hajime drags a hand through his hair. So _maybe_ he gets protective about Oikawa, even if Oikawa really doesn’t need it. “Right, sorry about that. Um, he was about to tell me, and then someone ran past and punched him in the stomach.”

Tsugio looks enraged on Oikawa’s behalf for all of a second, and then he realizes what Hajime is trying to tell him, and he shoots him such an exasperated look that Hajime almost laughs. “So you decided you really want to be punched as well, and now half my team is ignoring me.”

Hajime digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. “I thought maybe if we’re two people, there isn’t as much attention on him,” he explains weakly. “Sorry I pulled you into this. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

Tsugio nods, as if everything makes sense now. “Whatever, it’s just two more months before the year is up, and then I can ruin my own reputation.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no problems at all with that,” Hajime jabs half-heartedly. There’s a brief silence, and then he sighs. “Do you get it, though?”

Tsugio pulls up one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “I guess. But it’s still really dumb.”

“I’m starting to realize,” Hajime agrees, voice tight.

“Are they gonna kick you off the team?”

Hajime laughs through the tight bundle of nerves that’s suddenly appeared in his stomach. Or maybe that’s been there all day. “They’d have to be real dumb to kick out their captain.”

“The tournaments are all over, right? I know you said there’s a first-year who plays his position really well.”

“Yeah, but they’re gonna want Oikawa to teach him everything he knows for as long as possible.” He remembers Oikawa’s expression when he asked about practice, tight around the eyes. Something like fear. _I’ve been thinking about that, and you’re not going to like it._

“Okay. Good, then.”

“Anything else you wanted to know?”

Tsugio shrugs, looking down at his hands. “Are you--” he looks up again, right into Hajime’s scowl, and seems to change his mind. “--scared of what mom and dad will think?” he asks, finally. 

“No,” Hajime says, “Not - you don’t have to keep it a secret for long. Just give me like, two days. I had a really shitty day, and tomorrow is practice, and I still don’t know what’s going to happen there?” It comes out shaped like a question, and he tacks on a shrug as if that’s going to make it better. 

“Yeah, whatever. Take your time. I’m not gonna lie, though, if anyone asks me.”

“Course. I didn’t expect you to.”

“Yeah, well.” Tsugio turns back to his homework, a clear dismissal.

“Need help with anything?” Hajime asks, making to get up.

“I’ve got it covered.”

Hajime looks over Tsugio’s shoulder at his textbook, which is opened to a list of irregular English verbs. “Ugh, nevermind, can’t help you with that, anyway. Why do they even make verbs that don’t follow the rules, right?”

“It’s the dumbest shit, they could just make them right again, but apparently that’s not allowed. I’m doing these verbs a favor, straightening them out again.”

Hajime opens the door. “Well, good luck with that.”

Tsugio peeks up at him, then goes back to looking down at his homework. “I don’t think you need to be scared, either,” he says quickly. “I mean, they’re fine with Auntie Janya and everything.”

Hajime nods and closes the door between them, softly, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have you know that I was using Chris Hemsworth as a placeholder for a more Japanese actor, but then the thought of Oikawa liking some weird niche Australian actor was somehow funny to me so he got to stay.  
> Also, I know Iwaizumi canonically doesn't have siblings but the only reasons I could think of for his parents to name their child "first son" and then proceeded to not have more children are sad ones, so I chose to ignore that.
> 
> Anyway! Let me know what you think! :)


	3. tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi it's me! This is a long one, and one of my personal favorites, I hope you like it :)

Tuesday is better mostly by virtue of them having something like a game plan and, in Hajime’s case, knowing what’s going on throughout the entire day. 

He meets Oikawa at their usual corner, where he’s slouching against the wall of the 7-Eleven, its short awning protecting him from the misty rain. He looks restless even from a distance, the loose S of his stance, hands curling and uncurling by his sides. When Hajime arrives, Oikawa fixes him with a look. Hajime decides to be grateful he doesn’t go for a fake smile immediately, even if it’s almost jarring to see him without.

They fall into step silently, Oikawa absently fraying the straps of his backpack as he crowds in under Hajime’s umbrella. Hajime casts around for things to say, but there’s absolutely nothing that’s going to make this any easier, so he keeps quiet.

As soon as the school gates come into view, Oikawa puts on a smile like he’s donning armor. Hajime, for lack of his own armor, grits his teeth and stands up a little straighter.

“Here we go,” Oikawa says, some portion of his smile seeping into his voice, sharp and bright.

They make their way to their classroom, and Hajime tries to keep track of who’s hastily averting their eyes as they approach, who’s turning to whisper as soon as they pass, and who keeps staring at them, not even bothering to hide their disgust. He doesn’t even know half of the people he notices, but he makes sure to glare at the ones he catches. Some look away, flustered, like they didn’t think he’d - what, notice, or care enough to react? Maybe like it didn’t occur to them that he’s also an actual person they’re treating like shit. 

Hajime takes a small amount of pleasure in the fact that he can make them react  _ right back _ . 

Oikawa by his side is chattering again, and after they pass a particularly nasty group of second-years, Hajime decides to tune in. 

“--Take has grown so much since I last saw him, I really hope he’ll get to visit more often. You know, we should see if he gets along with Keizo, I can’t believe they’ve never met!”

Hajime shrugs. “I can ask my parents, I bet they’d love to set up a playdate.” He briefly thinks about the way Oikawa’s parents look at him, that mixture of lofty pity and mild shock, and then remembers his sister’s badly hidden glee at the way he kept inducing that look over and over again during dinner on Sunday. “They’ll probably get along with your sister.”

Oikawa laughs, then, a real one - barely more than an exhale, startlingly quiet compared to his fake laughs, which ring out like a bell. Hajime kicks open the door to the school building and holds it for him while trying to collapse his umbrella with the other hand.

“So gentlemanly, Iwa-chan," Oikawa chirps, nudging Hajime’s shoulder with his as he passes. “And yeah, I think my sister and your family would be a match made in heaven. How did we never think about this?”

Hajime catches a group of girls staring at them, huddled together right by the door. He recognizes Akiyama from their class, who likes to chat with him before school, never daring to approach Oikawa head-on but always skirting close. She doesn’t look disgusted so much as curious, and when he raises his eyebrows at the group, they all blush profusely and turn away.

“Because your sister’s never around,” he replies distractedly. “Why’s that, anyway?”

Oikawa shrugs, the gesture deliberately light in a way that immediately gives it away as anything but. “She gets into fights with my parents,” he says, like it doesn’t concern him in the slightest, but his voice is quiet enough to make sure nobody overhears. “We still text all the time, though. I’ll ask her.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind seeing Takeru again.” Last time, he’d only gotten a glimpse of him, a tightly bundled-up baby, fast asleep in his mother’s arms. “Or, you know, your sister. She’s cool.”

Oikawa grins at him, opening the door to their classroom with a flourish. “You can just say you have a crush on her, you know, it’s okay. I won’t judge you for your terrible taste in women.”

Hajime rolls his eyes and walks past Oikawa, slumping into his chair and setting down his backpack in the same movement. When he straightens up, he notices that Shinoda must have not waited for his arrival, this time. His chair is already as far away as it gets, and he’s pointedly looking in the other direction. 

Hajime stares at the back of his neck until he turns around, and then he stares some more until Shinoda breaks eye contact, looking away deliberately to start a conversation with someone in the row behind them. 

When Hajime turns back to Oikawa, he’s giving him the slightest approving nod, making Hajime feel, for all it’s worth, like an undercover agent. It makes the situation instantly more bearable. “For the last time,” he says, not bothering to even fake annoyance, “I don’t have a crush on your sister. Unlike you, I’m capable of just thinking people are  _ nice _ without immediately wanting to date them.”

“My sister isn’t  _ nice _ , Iwa-chan, you just have a thing for delinquents.”

“She’s the only one in your family who doesn’t look at me like I’m some bug they found under a log, okay? If I latch onto her when I’m at your place, that’s why.”

Oikawa blinks three times in quick succession, fake surprise hiding something else that Hajime can’t pin down. He busies himself getting out his textbook and pencils, glancing at the clock. In two minutes, he can stop pretending like he doesn’t care about the way everyone is so pointedly ignoring them. (In two minutes, Ms. Ikeda is going to start the lesson with a vocabulary quiz, as she does, and Hajime can’t believe he’s looking forward to  _ that. _ )

“I don’t look at you like that,” Oikawa finally says, sounding a little cross, and ah. 

Hajime could point out the countless times Oikawa has called him a brute, rude, mean, boorish. That he never misses an opportunity to comment on the way Hajime holds his chopsticks, or how he gets this mildly disgusted look whenever Hajime eats something without paying close attention to how or how fast. 

None of it matters enough for Hajime to want to pick a fight, or even cause more of that vaguely upset expression on Oikawa’s face.

“You don’t count, you’re the only reason I visit there in the first place,” he says instead, and Oikawa lights up instantly. 

“I’m so sorry you have to put up with people who value  _ manners _ for my sake,” he lilts right into the sound of the bell, and Hajime wastes no time cuffing him upside the head in retaliation. Oikawa’s answering yelp cuts off clean in the middle when Ms. Ikeda opens the door, which Hajime is willing to admit is a very useful skill to have. Now silent and pouting, Oikawa raises his hands to his hair and tries to contain the damage Hajime inflicted. 

Hajime grins and leans away, accidentally catching Shinoda’s eye again in the process.

He lifts his chin, raising his eyebrows in the flattest expression of a wordless  _ what  _ he can manage, and doesn’t break eye contact once while they rise to greet Ms. Ikeda, until Shinoda lets out a scoff and turns the back of his chair as far towards Hajime as he can conceivably get away with. 

*

Hajime tries to ask about Oikawa’s practice strategy again at lunch, but as soon as they settle down with their food, Akiyama hones in on their table. She doesn’t seem hostile, but then, he’s never been good at reading faces, especially when it comes to girls. 

He watches her approach. She has cut her hair exactly to shoulder-length, so that the tips of it whisper across her shoulders and fall to cover the sides of her face when she bows her head. “Hey, Iwaizumi, Oikawa,” she says.

“Akkin,” Oikawa replies, smiling. Hajime watches his expression for a clue, but it’s carefully blank, so even it’s almost unsettling.

“Would you mind if we sat with you?”

Oikawa turns to Hajime. “Iwa-chan?” he asks, and he has  _ never  _ asked Hajime if he minds the company Oikawa tends to attract at school - he knows Hajime doesn’t mind or particularly care who they share their time with, that he’ll tune it out if he doesn’t care for the conversation. This must be part of their strategy, not to sound too eager. 

Hajime frees up the chair next to his and shifts his tray to make space on the table. “Sure,” he says. It comes out as more of a grunt, but Oikawa gives him a blinding smile.

“Thank you!” Akiyama sets her own tray next to his. She raises a hand in the air and gestures for her friends’ attention while pulling back the chair next to him with her other hand, and a moment later, the whole chattering and laughing and  _ giggling  _ crowd of them descends on their table, filling up the remaining seats and pulling up extra chairs and tables, talking all the while. Their topics range from choreographies to gossip to the vocabulary test everyone is still groaning about. It’s all Hajime can do to keep up and try to memorize everyone’s names - not all of them are in his class, and he spots a few second years, too. Opposite him, Oikawa sinks into their conversation like into a relaxing bath. 

He’s made up nicknames for everyone before the break is over, each of them welcomed with indulgent eyerolls and blushes. Hajime does his best to keep the ratio even. He doesn’t notice that he’s been picking at the scabs on his arm until Oikawa kicks him under the table and he surreptitiously drops his hands to his side.

“You know, I’m envious of you two,” Akiyama says as everyone is gathering up their trays. For some reason, she keeps addressing Hajime, even when Oikawa is  _ right there _ , utterly approachable and friendly and clearly better at talking to girls than he is. 

Hajime makes a vaguely questioning sound, failing to come up with a single enviable thing about their situation.

“You’ve figured it all out. I’ve never even been on a  _ date _ .”

“Neither have I,” Hajime replies, surprised. 

Akiyama falters briefly, then smiles. “Ah, I suppose it’s different if you’re friends first, right?”

Oikawa, who was just about to throw out his trash, freezes, then turns around slowly. “We’re not  _ dating, _ Akkin,” he says with half a laugh, and everything falls into place. 

Akiyama’s eyes go round. “Oh,” she stutters, “I thought…”

She leaves it at that, which is just as well. 

“Still envious?” Hajime asks. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly furious, but he’s at least vaguely aware his fury isn’t entirely directed at Akiyama, so he keeps it out of his voice as best he can.

“I’m sorry!” Akiyama squeaks, “I didn’t mean to presume - everyone just said…” She sets down her tray and makes to flee.

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa calls after her, still almost laughing.

Hajime balls up his napkin and chucks it into the trash, missing Oikawa by a few centimeters. 

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Iwa-chan? I think that went well,” Oikawa says. He looks like he means it, face flushed in that way he gets when he just had his ego stroked. “Have you ever talked to that many girls at once? Oh that’s  _ right _ , you’ve never talked to  _ a girl _ , singular!”

“They all think we’re fucking,” Hajime states flatly, and whatever, he gets to be crude about this.

“So what? I corrected her, didn’t I?” Oikawa says blithely. 

“I’ve never even held anyone’s hand, and now everyone thinks we’re - fucking, just because we both like boys, like that’s the only prerequisite!” Hajime isn’t even sure himself how the two statements are linked, but they  _ are,  _ and it itches at him. Like it’s  _ so easy _ for them, now, just a matter of falling into each other because they’re the only ones left. He takes a deep breath, and fails to calm down. “She thought it was more likely that we went straight from friends to fucking without going on any dates than that we aren’t fucking!”

Oikawa watches him, brows furrowed. Then he smooths out his face in a way that feels deliberate, and tugs Hajime’s tray out of his hands to gently slide it into the rack. “Iwa-chan, you should be  _ flattered,” _ he lilts. “You know, I’m quite the catch.”

Hajime feels the fight drain out of him. “You’re a piece of shit,” he corrects flatly. “Let’s get going, I really don’t want to be late to biology.”

*

“Oikawa, wait,” Hajime calls, catching Oikawa by the strap of his backpack. “Oi, you gonna tell me what we’re doing at practice, or?”

Oikawa, who has been striding towards the clubroom with purpose, stumbles to a reluctant halt, and Hajime nods towards a slightly less frequented hallway, herding Oikawa in that direction. 

They round the corner, and Oikawa glances around to make sure nobody’s within hearing distance before leaning against the wall in a way that Hajime knows means he really just wants to lie down on the floor. 

“So what’s the plan?” Hajime asks.

Oikawa tilts his face up to the ceiling. “We need to trust them,” he says evenly.

There’s a beat. “Trust them,” Hajime repeats, incredulous. 

“Yes. It’s the only way this is going to work. We’re a team. If I don’t trust them, we’re right back to where we started at the beginning of the school year, six players trying to win on their own. Remember?”

And the thing is, Hajime does. He remembers yelling at Oikawa that he isn’t the only one on the court, and how for once Oikawa seemed to hear what he was saying. He can’t regret it, not when Oikawa has been playing more brilliantly ever since, but right now, with Oikawa standing before him looking sick to his stomach, Hajime wishes Oikawa had a setting between zero and a hundred when it comes to listening to his advice.

“That’s not my strategy, though,” he says.

Oikawa closes his eyes, face still tilted up. “That’s okay, I can probably do it alone.”

“I’ll just stick to making sure they don’t forget who’s their captain.” Hajime pushes himself off the wall, offering Oikawa a hand. “Let’s not be late, then.”

Oikawa opens his eyes slowly, a surprised smile spreading on his face, and he clasps Hajime’s hand. “Iwa-chan, I knew deep down you had respect for your  _ captain _ . Where’d you hide it all this time?”

“This is just until this all blows over. I’ll be back to insults in no time, so don’t get used to it.” Hajime pulls Oikawa along to the clubroom, only to have his courage fail him as soon as they’re in front of the door. After a few seconds that Hajime spends trying to muster the strength of will to raise his hand to the knob, Oikawa takes a deep breath and whisks open the door with a smile at the ready.

Inside, their teammates freeze, all of them in various states of undress.

Oikawa gives a cheery little wave. “Yoo-hoo! How is everyone? I can’t believe you all missed out on extra practice yesterday!”

“Except Kageyama,” Hajime adds with a curt nod in the kid’s direction, because he’s making a hilariously indignant face at the misrepresentation. Kageyama accepts the correction with a serious nod. He’s the only one who’s already in his shorts and t-shirt, ready to go.

“Sorry, captain,” Kindaichi mumbles from where he seems to be stuck in his shirt. Hajime suspects it’s at least part stalling tactic.

“That’s alright,” Oikawa replies easily, shrugging off his jacket and starting to unbutton his shirt in the same fluid movement, “I know you’re going to work yourself to the bone perfecting your spikes this week, a day off isn’t a bad idea when you put in so much effort on the other four days.”

Kindaichi finally appears from the other end of his shirt, looking appropriately steamrolled. “Yes, captain,” he says.

Oikawa gives him a satisfied nod. Hajime feels the mood in the room shift minutely, like it tends to do, to accommodate Oikawa. It’s in the way everyone seems to relax a fraction, their attention on Oikawa not quite waning, but turning into something less unsettled and more familiar. 

Hajime realizes that he’s just been standing there, taking it all in, and he quickly yanks his shirt over his head and kicks off his shoes. The familiar sounds of Oikawa quickly changing into his sports gear next to him fade into the easy conversation he strikes up with the others - for all intents and purposes, sounding like he always does, if a little more focused.

By the time they’re changed and ready to go, Hajime is cautiously optimistic about Oikawa’s plan. At least the first and second years have been shocked back into routine, talking to Oikawa like they usually do - that is to say, is with grudging admiration. The only ones Hajime is still keeping an eye on are Sasaki and Nakano, the other third years, who slunk in at the last second and hadn’t started changing yet when Hajime left. 

They’re just two people, Hajime thinks with some relief. He can get them in line, should Oikawa’s strategy fail.

He tries to get a read on the two of them as everyone forms the usual half-circle around their coach. They’re huddled together by the wall, as far from Hajime and Oikawa as they can get. Neither of them are in Hajime’s class, but they always talk to him when they catch him in the hallways or in the canteen, so he feels like they’re at least somewhat friends.  _ Were, _ maybe, he thinks, watching Sasaki whisper something that makes Nakano laugh.

“--warm up, then the three on three for the third years, Kindaichi and Kageyama, and spikes and receives for the rest. Off you go!” Coach Yoshino is saying, and here is something else Hajime has been dreading: warm-up stretches. Oikawa always uses the partnered exercises to make his rounds around the team, so unless he suddenly loses all his bravery and abandons his insane strategy, Hajime is on his own.

He chances a glance, and yes, here Oikawa is, already striding towards Kindaichi with a determined smile. It looks easy, but Hajime can’t even  _ imagine  _ walking up to someone with that kind of effortless calm right now. He wipes his hands on his shorts and pivots, trying to find anyone who’s willing to catch his eye.

Everyone’s looking just past him, locking eyes with someone else over his shoulder or just plain turning away. One of the second-years actually looks up at the ceiling as Hajime turns in his direction, and that’s just  _ it _ . Hajime waits until the kid has no choice but to look back down, and doesn’t avert his eyes until he is physically fidgeting under his glare.

“Excuse me,” says someone just behind him, and of course, how could he forget? 

“Kageyama,” Hajime breathes, spinning around. “Did you want to do the partnered exercises with me?”

Kageyama gives a nod, his usually so rigid posture sagging on an exhale. Hajime is dimly aware that Kageyama isn’t the most popular kid in his class, and how sometimes that must translate to a difficulty in finding a warm-up partner. 

Hajime sits down and gestures for Kageyama to follow suit, leaning forward into a stretch, eyes on where Oikawa is already extricating himself from Kindaichi again, ruffling his hair in passing and worming his way in between Kunimi and Sasaki with a laugh. He makes out their exasperated expressions at the familiar nuisance, and then Kageyama’s hands press into his back and he dutifully lowers his head until his forehead is almost touching the floor, ignoring the burning at the backs of his thighs.

When he looks up again, Oikawa is sitting cross-legged in front of Kunimi, who is pulling his arms towards him by his hands, one of his sneakers at each of Oikawa’s knees. Oikawa is chattering the whole time, Hajime can pick the friendly pitch and the rapid-fire pace of his voice out of the background noises of the gym without problem, even if he can’t make out any individual words.

Hajime wordlessly kneels down behind Kageyama and pushes him forward by the back, switching their positions. He tries to make out Kunimi’s expression, but he can only see about a quarter of his face. When his answering voice fills a pause in Oikawa’s speech, Hajime doesn’t hear more than the usual amount of vague irritation in it. Hajime breathes out.

As Kageyama leads him through the rest of the exercises, Hajime continues to watch Oikawa go from teammate to teammate, each interruption of two partners a new spike of anxiety and each grudging acceptance a new sigh of relief. Finally, sitting up, with Kageyama pulling his arms towards himself from behind him, Hajime allows himself a second to just  _ watch _ . 

Oikawa has his legs stretched out, feet slotted to Nakano’s, who is lying on his back, their hands joined and shaking with the stretch of it, but Nakano is laughing a little, voice strained from exertion and nothing else. This time, they’re close enough for Oikawa to catch Hajime staring, and to give him a smug little smile, as if to say  _ so there _ . Hajime briefly loses his hold and sags into Kageyama’s back, who grunts with the added weight. 

“Sorry,” Hajime says, bracing his feet against the floor again.

“Don’t mind,” Kageyama replies blandly, pushing them back upright.

Oikawa comes into sight just as they’re disentangling themselves and snatches Hajime’s arm. “Tobio-chan, I’m stealing your partner!” he announces, and Kageyama gets up, nodding. Everyone around them is dispersing to get the nets set up, he’s not going to find a partner for the last exercise, Hajime thinks, and finds himself saying, “You’ve already done the last exercise.”

“No wonder you’re lagging behind, if you keep sneaking glances,” Oikawa retorts, unfazed. “Hands,” he demands, and Hajime holds them out for him. Oikawa takes them, settling down on his back, feet up. “I just like the fetal position too much to pass up on the chance of doing this one twice,” he jokes. Hajime snorts incredulously, but slots the soles of his shoes to Oikawa’s, locking out his legs and leaning back. 

“I thought I’d rescue you from Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says more quietly, after a while. “He looks like his hands somehow manage to be ice-cold and sweaty at the same time.”

“Kageyama’s fine, leave him alone,” Hajime says automatically, even though Kageyama  _ does  _ have ice hands. Oikawa’s grip is warm and sure, a contrast Hajime tries his best not to pay too much attention to. “So what’s the verdict?,” he asks. “Everyone properly trusted back into obedience?”

“Keep an eye on Sasaki, I didn’t catch him this time,” Oikawa says immediately, like he had the order lined up and ready to go. “Shouldn’t be a problem, since he’ll be on your team for the three on three.”

Hajime does the mental math. Coach Yoshino had called up the third-years, Kindaichi and Kageyama, so if Oikawa isn’t setting for him, that means he’s getting - “Sasaki and Kageyama?” he asks, and Oikawa nods, nudging his legs into reversing their positions. Hajime lets the pressure roll him back and down onto the floor. “I can do that,” he says. “Anything else?”

Oikawa shakes his head. He’s wearing that tiny frown again that takes over his expression when he isn’t paying attention to it, and Hajime remembers how exhausting even finding one partner was, and how much worse it must have been for Oikawa. He squeezes Oikawa’s hand, and Oikawa squeezes back before letting go.

“Well!” he says, getting up and clapping his hands together. “Let’s get going on that three-on-three, then! Nakano! Kindaichi! We’ll wipe the floor with them, right?”

Kindaichi’s gaze sweeps over Hajime, Kageyama, and Sasaki. He gives Oikawa a dubious smile, and Oikawa skips over to clap a hand on his shoulder and whisper something that has him laughing in a second, looking infinitely more self-confident. 

“The only one who looks like a mop here is you, Oikawa,” Hajime calls back, and Sasaki laughs as Oikawa’s hand immediately goes up to his hair. 

“I can’t believe you’re this rude to your captain, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime grimaces. Oikawa asked him to keep an eye on Sasaki, and here he is, immediately undermining Oikawa’s authority in front of him. Maybe their usual banter has no place at practice for the time being, he decides. “Sorry,” he says, and Oikawa freezes for a split-second, then goes to pick out a ball from the basket, testing it between his palms. 

“You should be. Get ready, then!”

Hajime looks over Kageyama and Sasaki. He usually high-fives his teammates before a match, but Kageyama is notorious for not participating (or maybe just not getting what’s expected of him, he can be remarkably stupid about things like this) and high-fiving Sasaki now would feel like betraying Oikawa on a level he doesn’t even fully understand, so he just gets into position, slightly behind and to the right of Sasaki. "Ready to crush them?" he asks, and Kageyama gives a wordless nod, while Sasaki just crouches down, resolutely facing forward.

Oikawa on the other side gives him a smile full of teeth, spinning the ball in his hands. 

Hajime watches the familiar motions of his toss, run-up, and leap, but he knows something is off as soon as Oikawa tosses the ball, and the sound as his palm connects isn’t quite right either, like he doesn’t hit it where he was supposed to - the ball catches on the upper edge of the net, teetering for a second until it finally comes down on Oikawa’s side.

Kindaichi and Nakano call out, “Don’t mind!,” but Sasaki cackles, turning towards Kageyama.

Hajime watches him raise his arm and flip his wrist, hand flopping down in a mockery of a serve. 

Through the blood suddenly rushing in his ears, he doesn’t catch what Sasaki says to Kageyama. 

What he does see is the ugly grin stretching Sasaki’s upper lip, the disgust in it starkly visible even in profile. 

He catches the ball Kindaichi tosses over the net on autopilot and takes a step back, behind the service line. In his peripheral vision, Kageyama gives Sasaki a look that’s so thoroughly empty that it might actually be on purpose. 

It’s not enough.

Two years ago, when he kept getting into fights with his classmates, Hajime’s mother told him to deliberately recall all the little facts he knows about someone when he gets like this, so he tries. 

Sasaki has a cat. Sometimes he shows him pictures of it on his phone, it’s tiny and fluffy and almost unbearably cute. Sasaki took everyone out for pork buns last week and didn’t even complain when Hajime switched his order to a pizza bun. Whenever Sasaki sees him in the hallways, he yells his name at the top of his lungs and insists on a high five. 

Hajime bounces the ball once. 

Sasaki isn’t going to ask him for high fives anymore.

Hajime is alright with that.

He serves the ball into the back of Sasaki’s head with enough power to knock his head forward, chin slamming onto his chest. 

Sasaki turns around in time to see him catch the rebound, a hand flying up to his mouth.

An apology-shaped silence stretches out between them, and Hajime isn’t filling it.

Sasaki stares at him. Hajime silently holds his gaze.

“Sorry,” Sasaki finally says, letting his hand sink. His teeth are red. He must have bitten his lip, or his tongue. 

“You’re bleeding,” Hajime replies blandly. “Better let coach take a look at that.”

Sasaki leaves the court without another word. 

Hajime walks up to the net and wordlessly offers the ball back to Oikawa.

“You look awfully smug for someone who didn’t even make the point,” Oikawa says, taking it out of his hands. His eyebrows are raised in a silent question. Either he didn’t see, or he’s very good at hiding how he feels about Sasaki’s gesture.

“I think I made a point, alright,” Hajime replies flatly. On the other side of the net, Kindaichi flinches ever-so-slightly, wide eyes flitting between Hajime and Sasaki’s retreating back.

“Well!” Oikawa chirps, struggling to regain his cheerful tone. “Two on three. Now we’re  _ definitely _ wiping the floor with them. Nakano,” He tosses the ball behind himself. “Nice serve!”

Hajime turns to Kageyama, who fixes him with an unimpressed look. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it. “We’ll show them we’re not going down that easily, right?”

Kageyama watches him for a second, seems to come to a decision, and gives a single nod, expression changing to something so earnestly determined that it almost makes Hajime smile.

Hajime manages to receive Nakano’s serve, and Kageyama tosses so precisely into the gap between Oikawa and Kindaichi that all Hajime has to do is slam it down onto the floor. 

He laughs, gripping Kageyama’s shoulder and shaking it. “See?,” he says. “We’re fighting. That was a nice toss.”

“Yes,” Kageyama agrees, taking the ball and getting into position to serve. 

They end up losing the set, with Sasaki looking on from the bench, a tissue pressed to his mouth, unmoving. Kageyama keeps sending increasingly incredulous glances his way. 

“He’s not coming back,” Hajime says eventually, wondering if he should go over and apologize. He’s struggling to find the regret necessary to do it.

“Coward,” Kageyama hisses, startlingly intense.

Kageyama’s pinpoint tosses are as good as ever, landing them a nice amount of points. They work well together, with Hajime not necessarily in the mood to steer the game, willing to hand over responsibility for the time being. Kageyama takes matters into his own hands. Hajime watches the gears turn in his head and thinks for a second about telling him that Hajime is on his team too, that he can share his strategies. 

It feels too close to what he told Oikawa at the beginning of the school year to not count as a betrayal. 

So he keeps his mouth shut and does his best to spike Kageyama’s tosses instead, even as they get increasingly faster, arcs flattening. 

Oikawa watches them with something like delight. Around him, Nakano and Kindaichi are taking the points that Hajime’s side is scoring with an untroubled calm. Their team moves as a unit within minutes, Oikawa calling out a word here and there, ruffling their hair or handing out high fives when they score. 

When they make the final point, Kageyama turns to Hajime and says, over their cries of victory, “You hit him on purpose.”

It’s not a question, but funnily enough, it doesn’t sound like an accusation either. “Yes,” Hajime confirms. 

Kageyama nods to himself for a few seconds, mulling it over. “He had it coming.”

Hajime blinks. He thinks back to yesterday, how he thought that Kageyama must just not care about anything beyond volleyball. 

Apparently he does have a single, additional opinion on bullies.

Hajime hums, noncommittal. “You played well. Let’s get them on the next one.”

“Yoo-hoo! You two, of the resting bitch faces!”

Hajime whirls around to glare at Oikawa, whose teasing smile immediately dissolves into ugly laughter as he points a shaking finger at them. When Hajime chances a look at Kageyama, he’s also scowling in Oikawa’s direction, eyes narrowed. Hajime takes a moment to imagine how their twin glares must have looked and feels his expression soften into a grin. He punches Kageyama in the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get on the other side.”

Kageyama stumbles, rights himself, and strides over without a word. Hajime shakes his head and looks over to the bench, where Sasaki is still giving him a belligerent glare. 

He sighs, signals Kageyama to wait on the other side, and goes over to him.

“Did it stop bleeding?” he asks, sitting down heavily next to Sasaki. Sasaki makes no move to lift the tissue.

“Iwaizumi, Sasaki here tells me you hit him in the back of the head on purpose?”

Hajime leans forward to find coach Yoshino a few meters down the bench, making eye contact past Sasaki. His stomach twists.  _ Are they going to kick you off the team  _ echoes in his mind.

“Did he also tell you what he said?” he asks. 

It’s a gamble. It’s also the only thing he can think of that could help him out right now. Next to him, Sasaki is staring intently at the floor, silent.

Coach Yoshino looks between them, beady black eyes narrowed. 

“Apologize to each other, and go back to the game. We don’t need players that are too hung up on their infighting to concentrate on the matches.”

As the oldest of three brothers, Hajime is used to being the bigger person. It still takes a lot of willpower to dreg up every last ounce of regret he can find, and muster a bow. “I’m sorry, Sasaki,” he says, and even manages to mean it to some degree.

Sasaki watches him, stone-faced, tissue still pressed to his mouth.

“Give me that, Sasaki. Don’t tell me it hasn’t stopped bleeding by now.” Coach Yoshino always sounds impatient to a degree, but it’s even more pronounced now. He doesn’t give off the impression of someone willing to deal with something that must sound like a pointless squabble to him even on a good day.

Sasaki hands over his tissue and folds into a sloppy bow. “Sorry,” he says tonelessly, righting himself again immediately. 

Hajime has half a mind to punch him in his stupid, bloody mouth right then and there, but he manages to turn on his heels instead, starting to march back to the court. “Iwaizumi,” Yoshino stops him, “A word.”

“Yes?” Hajime asks, turning back to face him as Sasaki brushes past to join Kageyama on the other side of the net.

“As long as you’re on court, anger will only cost you. It means you’re distracted, rash, and untrustworthy. Take a leaf out of Oikawa’s book and play it calm from now on.”

Hajime nods and leaves before he can say something that’ll get him in trouble, like,  _ if you think Oikawa’s less angry on court than I am after watching him play for three years, then you’ve got another thing coming. _

They proceed to lose the second set as well even with their third teammate, but Hajime is too frazzled and angry to really care, neither about the loss nor the resentful glances Sasaki keeps sending him throughout the match. 

When they shake hands after the game, Sasaki barely even touches Oikawa’s fingers before he heads straight for the clubroom, not bothering with cleanup duty. Oikawa watches him go.

“When I said to keep an eye on him,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, linking arms with Hajime, “I didn’t mean  _ smack a ball into the back of his head. _ Just for the record.”

“Fuck off,” Hajime says. It’s more of an apology than what he told Sasaki half an hour ago. 

“That’s alright though, just tell me you like my tosses better than Kageyama’s and I’ll let it slide,” Oikawa continues blithely, bending down to pick up a stray volleyball and tossing it back into the cart.

“Kageyama’s tosses are exactly where he wants them,” Hajime says, both because it’s true and because they’re passing Kageyama where he’s rolling up the net. Kageyama seems to straighten up a little at the praise, going back to his task with renewed vigor.

“But are they where  _ you  _ want them?” Oikawa lilts, and that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it.

Hajime throws open the door to the supply closet, grabbing two mops and pushing one at Oikawa, who is giving him his best confident grin, the one Hajime always wants to wipe off his face as quickly as possible.

“You can say it, Iwa-chan. Say,  _ Oikawa is my favorite setter _ .  _ I miss Oikawa’s tosses terribly when I have to play on Kageyama’s team. I can’t win without Oikawa’s tosses.” _

“In your fucking dreams, Shittykawa,” he says. When they step back out into the gym, everyone else is already in the last stages of tidying up. He belatedly realizes that by claiming floor cleaning duty, they will by default also be the last ones back in the clubroom. He glances at Oikawa sideways.

Oikawa catches his look and shrugs. “I thought we could use a break today. We can’t do this every day, though.”

Hajime breathes out, and out, and out. He gets to work, eyes trained on the floor. “Yeah,” he says.

Oikawa drags his mop over to the other side of the gym and follows suit, calling out the occasional goodbyes as their teammates filter out one by one. Most of them call back, or at least give a wave. As soon as the last of them leaves, Oikawa falls silent. When Hajime chances a look, it looks more like the mop is holding him up than the other way around.

By the time they’ve finished up and enter the clubroom, most everyone has left already, only a single shower still rushing. Hajime grabs his clothes and makes his way to the shower stall by the wall, Oikawa filing in next to him. 

They don’t speak, even when their other teammate leaves.

When Hajime finally emerges, already feeling mostly alright again, towelling off his hair, he finds out what has kept Oikawa quiet. He’s sitting on the floor, putting on his shoes and tying his laces slowly, like it’s taking all of his concentration. The small frown from before is back, and finally Hajime can place it.

“Headache?” he asks.

Oikawa gives him a look that is so absolutely, entirely blank that Hajime takes a few worried steps in his direction. Then Oikawa nods once and goes back to the task of tying his shoes, hair dripping onto the floor as he leans forward.

“You have a painkiller on you?” 

Oikawa gets like this on occasion, when he’s tired or tense or both. As far as Hajime is aware, the only thing that helps is a dark, quiet room and a good night of sleep, but painkillers stave off the worst of it for a while. 

After another few seconds that Oikawa apparently needs to process his question, he shakes his head. 

“Okay, come on.” Hajime holds out a hand, and Oikawa lets himself be pulled upright, but then he just stands there. Hajime sighs. “You want me to do your hair, or can you do it yourself? I could probably give you a mohawk, you know, I got this new gel that’s supposed to be super strong.”

Oikawa makes a small, angry sound, the threat of Hajime messing with his hair apparently enough to shake him out of his trance at least a little. 

“No, I can do it,” he gets out, picking up his bag and carrying it over to the sink with both hands, like it’s either very heavy or incredibly valuable. Hajime leans against the adjacent sink and watches him go through his routine, slowly.

“I’ll leave this team for dead, you know,” Oikawa says eventually, working product into his hair with his right hand and steadying himself on the sink with his left. His forehead is ridiculously high, which is probably why he has been styling his hair over it since he figured out how. It makes him look weirdly vulnerable like this, smoothing it back to distribute the gel.

“You want to quit?” Hajime asks.

“No, when the year is over. They’ll fall apart. I was going to spill all my secrets about keeping the team together and all that, you know. I was going to put work into it, too, but you know what? I don’t really care anymore.” He mimes an explosion with his left, swaying a little. “Après moi, le déluge.”

“Stop being such a pretentious ass,” Hajime says. He pauses. “Kageyama isn’t so bad.”

“I’m showing him all the setter techniques he can ask for,” Oikawa agrees, plugging in his hair dryer. The pressure he’s putting on the plug makes him sway back on his heels before he manages. “I’m practicing his jump serve with him until he drops. But he’s not hearing a single word from me about  _ team spirit _ .” 

Then, he effectively prevents Hajime from replying by turning on the blow drier.

The thing is, Hajime gets it, to a point. Seeing everyone who was so full of praise for them up until now turn away, and over something like this - the work they’re having to put in just to be barely accepted now - it doesn’t exactly endear them to him.

“Sucks that Sasaki won’t be around for that,” he says eventually, into the noise. 

Oikawa shuts off the blow-drier. “What?” he asks, inspecting himself in the mirror, carding a hand through his hair.

“Nothing,” Hajime says, but at Oikawa’s annoyed look, he repeats, “I just said it sucks that Sasaki won’t be around for that.”

“What did he do, anyway?” Oikawa asks, and immediately turns on the blow drier again, so Hajime just flops his wrist the way Sasaki did by way of reply. 

Oikawa doesn’t react at first, if only because there is no way for him to tense up any further. Hajime watches his mouth slowly twist around what must be one of his rare swear words, and catches himself wishing he could hear it over the noise. He’s only ever seen Oikawa swear on court, with emotions running high and his competitive nature getting the better of him.

“Let’s get you home,” he says as soon as Oikawa shuts off the blow drier, and Oikawa follows him outside, tame as a lamb. At this point, the school grounds are almost completely empty. The drizzle from this morning has only picked up in iciness, and Hajime slows down so he can shake his umbrella free and open it up. When Oikawa falls into step beside him, his eyes are fixed on the ground in the way Hajime knows means he’s switched to autopilot. 

When they reach their crossing, Hajime asks, “You got anyone to make you dinner?” He follows Oikawa a few meters in the direction of his home to keep him under the umbrella, until Oikawa realizes he’s been asked a question and looks up slowly.

“No,” he says finally, then blinks. “Are you offering, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime knows he’s trying to sound teasing, but it comes across as pleading enough that he’s willing to look past that. “Yeah. I’ll call my parents.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says in a pale imitation of his usual lilt, “I already have a mom.”

And maybe it’s that he sounds so tired, exhausted even by their usual back-and-forth, but Hajime abruptly doesn’t feel like responding in kind. “Yeah, well,” he says, matter-of-fact, “She’s not doing her job.”

Oikawa makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and then doesn’t say anything for a long time. Only after Hajime is done with his phone call does he pick up the conversation again, asking in a small voice, “Do your parents know yet?”

Hajime looks up from his phone. Next to him, Oikawa is scuffing the soles of his shoes on the pavement, the corners of his mouth downturned.

“Not yet, Tsugio is keeping quiet,” Hajime says. “I was thinking tomorrow.” he grimaces. More for the sake of the conversation than anything else, he asks back, “Yours?”

Oikawa scoffs. “No. I’m not gonna tell them anything, but I’m counting on them hearing it through the grapevine.” At Hajime’s blank look, he adds, “That way they can’t bring it up with me.”

Hajime may not understand the way the Oikawa family works, but he knows very well that they have unspoken rules about what is and isn’t okay to address, and it sounds very much like Oikawa to exploit that. He huffs out a laugh, and Oikawa’s frown smoothes out for a second.

“Serves them right,” he says darkly. “How about your sister?” Oikawa just shakes his head, and Hajime decides not to press the issue, instead resting the palm of his hand between Oikawa’s shoulder blades to nudge him around a street corner. Oikawa’s eyelids flutter closed, and he follows the gentle pressure, letting himself be steered. By the time they reach Oikawa’s home, he looks marginally less tortured. 

Hajime still leads him up to his room, closing the blinds and turning off the lights as Oikawa lies down on his futon, not even bothering to cover himself with the blanket. 

“I’ll go make dinner,” he says quietly. “Anything I can’t use?”

“Just tell me what you took, I’ll tell them it was me,” Oikawa replies, muffled into his pillow.

Hajime picks his way around scattered magazines, toys and controllers to the door, and when he closes it behind himself, he realizes that the feeling of not belonging apparently isn’t just limited to the presence of Oikawa’s parents - it’s their  _ house _ , too, that makes it impossible to feel at home, so carefully devoid of personality.

The Oikawa’s kitchen is exactly what he expected, all chrome and glass and dark tile, and the gigantic fridge, when he opens it, is nearly empty. He scavenges a lone carrot and some onions and potatoes, finds and starts up the rice cooker, and opens all cabinets to get a feeling for what’s where. 

He takes the feeling of being unwelcome, an intruder, and resolutely overwrites it with the image of Oikawa’s exhausted face, pinched in that unconscious frown. If Oikawa managed to live here for all fifteen years of his life, Hajime can cook in his kitchen just this once.

It’s the jar of homemade curry that does the trick, though: Hajime spots it, wedged into an overfull box of pristine-looking spices, no doubt to be forgotten and never used. Digging it out decisively, he gets to work.

Just as he has left the pot of curry to simmer on the stove to open the window before it can fog up, the front door opens and closes. 

“Sorry for intruding,” Hajime says quickly, belatedly, under his breath, and then a short, round woman walks past the doorway, freezing as she spots him. She is markedly not Oikawa’s mother, and stares at him like she feels much the same way about him. 

Neither of them say anything for a second, and then Hajime takes in her equipment - she’s carrying a mop and a bucket, and he finally makes the connection. The Oikawas have a cleaner. Because of course they do.

"I’m a friend of Oikawa Tooru’s," he says quickly. "I’ll, um, be out of your hair in a second." He jerks a thumb towards the pot on the stove. "Five minutes."

The woman smiles at him, her face scrunching up into a myriad of wrinkles. "No, no, not at all, take your time," she says, waving at him to go back to the kitchen, still holding the bucket and mop. The bucket looks to be filled with about five different bottles of cleaning agents. Hajime wonders distantly if Oikawa’s parents don’t own any. “Smells good,” the woman says, pointing at the stove as well. “You want to be a cook when you’re grown up?”

“Oh,” Hajime says, utterly disarmed. “No, but my dad is, he taught me. It’s curry. Do you want some?”

Her smile widens into sudden peals of laughter, ringing out loudly in the empty house. She’s missing a front tooth. Hajime stands there awkwardly, waiting for her to answer, but she just shakes her head, still chuckling, and disappears into the bathroom.

Hajime turns back to the stove, face burning.

He does his best to clean up after himself, stuffing the cutting board, pot and knife back into their respective cabinets and drawers after he’s divided the curry up into two generous helpings, and carries both upstairs.

Oikawa stays unmoving until Hajime sets down his bowl next to the futon, then he flops over to his side, eyes on him.

“Flirting with the cleaning lady, are we?” he asks lightly. 

Hajime gives a single, embarrassed bark of laughter. “Yeah, sure. I offered her some food and she laughed at me. She’ll probably ask to marry me next.” 

Oikawa gives him an incredulous look, and Hajime only just manages to stop himself from flicking his forehead. “What,” he says defensively, “I didn’t know that’s apparently not done, okay, we don’t have  _ cleaners _ !”

“No, no,” Oikawa says, sitting up with his knees drawn up and reaching for the bowl, “I’m sure she got a kick out of it, don’t worry. Mmm.” He breathes in deeply through his nose. “Iwa-chan, that smells almost edible!”

“I sure fucking hope so,” Hajime says, pleased despite himself, settling in next to Oikawa.

Oikawa immediately tips towards him, leaning into his side and hooking his chin on his shoulder, even though it must make eating harder. 

Hajime relaxes into the sharp point of contact between them and tucks in, keeping half an eye on Oikawa taking his first bite, his chin digging in uncomfortably.

He only freezes for a half-second, quickly smoothing over his expression. Hajime has never bothered to tell him that doing that gives away that there’s something to be smoothed over in the first place. He bites back a laugh as Oikawa’s face slowly turns a blotchy red, visible even in the half-dark of his room.

Oikawa chews and swallows.

“Good?” Hajime asks.

“Perfectly fine,” Oikawa trills. He takes another bite. Hajime continues eating his portion with gusto, until Oikawa finally breaks and disentangles himself from Hajime to hunt for a tissue. 

Hajime watches him wipe his face and blow his nose, grinning. Oikawa glowers at him. “Some friend you are,” he mumbles through his tissue, “Poisoning me when I’m already weak!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Hajime says, “Chili is good for you.” Oikawa sticks out his tongue at him, but goes back to his food without further complaints.

“You should go to a doctor with those headaches,” Hajime says after a while, and Oikawa makes a single, unimpressed sound in the back of his throat, already sliding back down into his pillow. He shuffles over to press his face into the small of Hajime’s back where he’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the futon.

Hajime makes an effort not to tense up. "You know, maybe it’s something that’s easy to fix, like that time you finally went to see someone about your knee."

“I don’t think they’ll have a brain brace,” Oikawa mumbles into the hem of Hajime’s shirt, leaving a warm spot where his breath hits.

Hajime laughs. “Look, man, I’m just saying. It’s not all rocket science. We’re already trying to fix everything else on our own, maybe you can get some help with this, at least.”

Oikawa makes another sound, marginally less indignant, and Hajime knows this is as far as he gets to agreeing about these things.

He stays still for another few minutes, while Oikawa’s breath evens out and his fingers unclench around his shirt, and then he gets up and sneaks out of the room, feeling a little bit like a reverse burglar.

When he’s getting ready for bed, he gets a text that reads,  _ thank you iwa-chan,  _ devoid of punctuation or emojis. He can’t remember the last time Oikawa genuinely thanked him for something. It’s weirdly unsettling.

_ put the phone away and go back to sleep, idiotkawa, _ he texts back, slumps into bed, and tries to imagine Oikawa thanking him in person, what the pitch of his voice would be like, his expression. He can’t picture it until he remembers the warmth of Oikawa’s mouth through the fabric of his shirt, face hidden, tone free of its usual affectation. 

Hajime turns around to press his face into his pillow, groaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were those actual stretching routines? Yes. Are they necessary for volleyball? Probably not, but hey, I watched a whole youtube video for this and therefore no one should criticize me. :D


End file.
